I first met Samira, a girl who lived in a corner of the city of Mazar-i-Sharif, at the school. She was a dreamer. Whenever she talked about her goals and lofty aspirations, her eyes sparkled. As her teacher, I could see all the potential and talent in her, and I knew that if she pursued her dreams with the same determination, she would one day become a successful girl. But at that time, neither Samira nor I knew that one day the sky of girls’ dreams would darken, and black clouds would rain upon the papers and pens of girls. After the collapse of the republic government and the Taliban takeover, everything changed; schools were closed, and I lost my job. For a long time, I had no news of Samira and my other students until one day, after a year, I encountered one of my students named Hadia in the Saadat Library. We wandered around the library together and talked. I inquired about her friends and other students as usual, and she said, “Everyone is fine, dear teacher.” But it was different when it came to Samira. When I asked about her, I heard news that I truly couldn’t digest. My heart sank, and I sat down, shedding tears alone in the library for a few moments.
Samira, a girl with a brave and strong spirit, had a mind full of big dreams, but she could no longer rise from her place and would remain imprisoned in the confinement her mother had set for her, where she would sleep forever. Hadia (pseudonym) recounted:
Samira was in the seventh grade when schools closed. After the closure of schools, she thought all her dreams were shattered and fell into severe depression, locking herself away in her room, which contained a mattress, a few beautiful flowers, and her small library. Her family, lacking sufficient literacy, didn’t pay much attention to her, saying, “Let her be; this girl has gone mad. You’re not the only one failing in your studies; this situation has affected all the girls.”
Unable to bear her family’s words, Samira continued to isolate herself. She even avoided contact with her friends. She didn’t want to communicate with her family either. Months passed this way. One day, her uncle’s family visited them from their village. Samira, unaware of the visit, emerged from her room after a long time; of course, her mother had already instructed her to wear a better outfit and bring tea for the guests today. Samira, as usual, dressed in a simple outfit and brought tea for the guests, unaware that this tea would be a trap that would change her life.
That day, when Samira caught wind of the situation upon seeing the sweets and flowers. It was then that the deal was sealed, and her father decided to give her away to his nephew, who was 18 years old. Samira was only 13 and knew nothing of marriage and shared life. She had only learned to weave dreams and study.
After understanding the situation, Samira raised her voice and argued with her parents, but nobody paid attention to her or her aspirations. She decided to cry and plead, but even that yielded no results. Her father said, “Enough talking; the deal is done, and the flower is given. Samira, you know the conditions of Afghanistan; eventually, you have to get married, so stop whining. I have honor and dignity among people, and I should see you married to my nephew and start your household and life than to hear that the Taliban took you away or some other chatter.”
Despite Samira’s attempts to persuade her father during the days, his words silenced her. His decision only increased her loneliness and silence. A year of confinement in her room and being away from her studies and dreams didn’t break her spirit, but her father’s decision frightened her, and this fear gradually turned into an illness—an illness that robbed her of the ability to stand. They said she was paralyzed, but it was evident that an incurable pain had struck her, one that her family had prepared for her and the Taliban had facilitated. They said she was permanently paralyzed, and in her small room, her eternal place, she would remain imprisoned forever.